A flower for your butterfly.

You Speak Of Your Writer

of having abandoned him at the party
of how he is a drunk and of how his new band
                                                              makes bad music
you are a pleasure to talk to
from one end of the bed to the other


                                  - Hugh Tolhurst

days

there are no old days
no good old days
no, they were the days’ days


these are the days
and more days
and all days.


                     - Shelton Lea

I fold.

The Night Walks

Are becoming a habit.

All I want.

The heater is broken.

Cloudy afternoon.